Trust
by zalrb
Summary: Confusion arises between Jon and Sansa when Jon returns to Winterfell with Daenerys. Emotions fly, passions erupt, leaving everyone involved puzzled.
1. Chapter 1

Sansa watched as Jon led Daenerys through the grounds. The way they walked next to each other, close enough to just barely touch, made her jaw tighten in a way she was unaccustomed to. Sansa had experienced many novel quirks since the arrival of the Dragon Queen; something about her, about always seeing Jon with her invoked in Sansa a frosty disposition that hardened her and frightened those who witnessed the change, the shift to a stoniness that made her almost statuesque. She didn't know how long she'd been staring at them before Jon looked up and saw her standing on the balcony.

Their eyes connected for a moment and Sansa felt a bit of her chill melt, a quick flutter of her heart that wasn't uncommon whenever she and Jon looked at each other but still caught her by surprise whenever it tickled her chest. She turned away, leaning her back against the railing and nearly started when a few minutes later, he came toward her, joining her on the balcony.

They said nothing for a few moments.

"She's quite beautiful," said Sansa finally. "Your silver-haired queen."

The neutrality of her tone didn't fool Jon; in fact it betrayed the depth of her anger at him and caused his hands to tremor with anxiety. "Sansa…"

"Before I sentenced him to die, Lord Baelish suggested her beauty is what made you bend the knee," she said. "That seemed too common a reason for you but perhaps it's a weakness in Stark men. To follow beautiful women to their doom."

Jon looked sharply at her. "Do you really think I would put all the North at risk because I thought a woman was beautiful? Do you really think I would put you at risk for something like that?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," said Sansa.

Her words were a pang in his chest, a painful ache that made him flinch. "How could you say that?"

"What do you expect me to say, Jon, you didn't consult any of the Northern houses, you didn't consult me. You never consult me."

Slowly, Sansa's frigidity gave way to a rising in her chest, a rising that threatened to scorch upon its release.

"Sansa, my reasons are—"

"Are what?" she said severely. "Now you want to consult with me? After the fact?"

"Will you not let me get a word in?" said Jon.

"Why should I when you didn't afford me the same courtesy?"

"That isn't fair."

"At least we agree on that! I suppose you didn't know that everyday for weeks I would look for a raven from you? For all I know you could've been dead or held prisoner never to return. But I suppose you never thought about that? I suppose it's easy to forget the people you left behind when you venture so far?"

The words were spilling from Sansa's mouth fuelled more by anger than actual concern; it was hard for her to discern where this rage sprang from, it was a sense of betrayal certainly but a betrayal that felt more primal than logical and it compelled her to keep shouting.

"I thought that leaving the North in my care meant that you finally trusted me enough—"

"Do not talk to me about trust," said Jon, his voice rising. He felt his incredulity swell into anger, anger at her presumption, at her charge that he didn't trust her, that he didn't carry her with him wherever he went. "You are the one who isn't trusting me, Sansa."

"And how should I trust you? As a king who abandoned his people or as a brother who abandoned his family."

"You should trust me as a man!" he yelled. He paused. Sansa's eyes widened imperceptibly and Jon felt a nervousness roil in his gut but he continued speaking.

"You should trust me as a man who tries to do what's best, who tries to take his duty seriously. Every decision I make, I have you in mind! I bent the knee to Daenerys because I believe she can make the world a better place, a better place for all of us, a better place for you! The moment you came to the Wall, I swore that I would do everything I could to protect you and —"

"Oh for Goodness Sake, Jon, I am not your helpless little sister who is in need of —"

"I don't try to protect you because I think you're helpless, I try to protect you because of how much you mean to me, Sansa! Can you really not tell the difference?"

"Can you really not understand that it's hard to see the difference when you don't respect me enough to involve me in your decisions?"

"Do you really believe that? That I don't respect you, that I don't admire you for surviving everything that you have? There isn't anyone I respect more than you!"

"Except her," said Sansa coldly, taking a step to walk away.

Jon turned her around, his hands grasping her shoulders so he could look her in the eye with all of his intent and sincerity, he burned for her to understand the intensity of his affection and knew he would hold her gaze until she understood it in her bones. She stared back at him, her expression guarded but her green eyes shining with what Jon recognized as vulnerability, a vulnerability that inflamed his desire for her to understand. It was strange. He didn't have this impulse with Arya or Bran; his affection for them, protectiveness of them, it was deep-rooted but not nearly as severe. It was a unique feeling, one he didn't even have for Daenerys. And then he wondered why that mattered, why he compared the emotions he felt for the two women when one was most certainly, absolutely, without a doubt brotherly.

"I won't say that Daenerys and I don't share something. We do. I can't quite describe it but it's there, I won't lie to you. But … but …"

Jon's eyes searched Sansa's face; his skin was flushed red with heat even in the Northern cold, his heart beat so fast it was making him light-headed.

"But nothing and no one will ever come between us, Sansa. Nothing and no one will ever distract me from my duty to the North and … and my duty to you. Do you understand?"

Sansa stayed where she was for a moment, captive in Jon's gaze, and then she pulled herself out of his grasp, turning on her heel to head back inside. Perhaps when she was alone she would remember how to breathe again.

Jon sagged against the railing. He felt strangely winded. Exhausted. Empty. And yet his entire body was humming from the impact of the argument. The sensation distracted him to the point that it took him a few gasps of breath to realize that Daenerys was standing on the other end of the balcony.

"Daenerys," he said.

She walked up to him with slow, deliberate steps, skimming her fingers along the ledge. "Your eldest sister?" she inquired. "Sansa?"

"Yes," said Jon. "You heard us?"  
"Difficult not to."

Jon nodded. He glanced at her and laughed in confusion. "What's that look?"

"Nothing, it's only…" Daenerys smiled but Jon could tell that she wasn't actually amused. "You are an earnest person." She tilted her head slightly. "It's what drew me to you. But I don't think I have ever seen you quite so affected in the time that I've known you."

"It's Sansa," he said. "She has a way of bringing out my passions is all."

Daenerys nodded. "And you her it seems," she said before walking back the way she came.

Jon watched her go and looked in her direction long after she'd left the balcony. He couldn't shake her shrewd eyes from his mind; and more than that, he couldn't shake the feeling that perhaps she was right, to speak of him and Sansa with such a knowing tone.


	2. Chapter 2

Daenerys understood the intent of it all — the feast held in her honour. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion, a welcome to the North, a display of good will and benevolence; a chance for the lords to see her and know her and revel with her before they embarked on the fight of their lives. It was a step in understanding why their king bent the knee to her. She could discern every objective Jon had with the feast but the mood of the occasion was far from warm and farther from welcoming.

Indeed, this was partly because the North did not take to her as immediately as Jon had hoped and assured her they would, but she had expected resistance. She had expected skepticism and resentment at his decision, it would have been naïve not to. What she had not expected was the silence between Jon and his sister, Sansa. Or perhaps that wasn't entirely true. From what she had been told of Lady Stark, from the way Jon's eyes brightened with a fire so different from his tired dejection when he spoke of her, Daenerys knew before meeting her that Sansa Stark was a strong-willed young woman, clever and wary — she would not welcome her brother's decision so easily. It was the _type_ of silence between Jon and Sansa that struck Daenerys. It wasn't huffy and petulant, a squabble between two siblings. No, this silence was alive with a tension that made Daenerys feel like an interloper. There was a charge in their non-communication that was almost electric; a seething quality that if Daenerys hadn't known any better, she would think she was intruding upon a lover's quarrel. It was hard not to feel indignant. However, she could tell that where Bran was Jon's softness and Arya was Jon's heart, Sansa was his world: no one meant to him what she did and she was the one who needed to be swayed above all others.

"Lady Stark," said Daenerys looking past Jon to Sansa sitting next to him. "I must express again what an honour it is to meet you."

Sansa smiled although her eyes remained as icy as they did when they had greeted each other in the courtyard. "Thank you, _your Grace."_

When she didn't continue speaking and only put a piece of chicken in her mouth, Daenerys bit back her affront and swallowed her desire to rise to Sansa's strategically snide "your Graces".

She continued. "Jon has told me quite a lot about you on our journey here."

At this, Sansa stopped eating and turned to Daenerys without so much as a glance to Jon. "You must forgive me, _your Grace,_ for you have me at a disadvantage. Jon has not told me a single thing about _you."_

Jon gagged on his wine and glared at Sansa who refused to look at him, which only inflamed his anger. His agitation was peculiar, a hangover from the argument they'd had in the afternoon and that surprised him. Surely, he should be angry at Sansa for insulting their guest, for disguising contempt as civility. After all he did care for Daenerys and had wanted her to feel welcome. But Sansa's contempt wasn't what bothered him, it was the accusation beneath her contempt. The accusation that Jon had acted without thinking about the North, without thinking about _her_ ; the charge that he had chosen Daenerys above his people and not for his people; Sansa's wordless allegation that he forgot her. As if he ever could. As if he ever wanted to. They had already gone one round over the subject but inside, Jon was screaming for a second.

"So then you have not heard anything about me?" said Daenerys.

"There are stories, of course," said Sansa. "Daenerys Stormborn, the Conqueror."

She picked up her goblet and a dozen lords stood up from their seats and rose their glasses to her. When Sansa raised hers as well and took a sip of wine, the lords drank afterwards and sat back down.

Daenerys was impressed despite herself. "You sound as if you disapprove."

Sansa looked at her pointedly. "I trust in all decisions my brother makes and he trusted in a conqueror, which means that I must trust in you too. Forgive me if I gave off an air of disapproval," she said.

Jon felt a sense of gratitude and appreciation that Sansa hadn't challenged or undercut his authority in front of Daenerys and the lords like she might have done not too long ago. He even felt somewhat … _flattered_ at the protectiveness, the slight defensiveness in her tone, at the implication that she and him shared everything together and the idea of discord was absurd. However, he knew it was all for appearance, that she didn't trust his decision, that she didn't trust him at all right now and that only deepened his fury.

Sansa didn't care about his fury. She could feel it, his sense of betrayed anger. But his anger was no match for her own rage at him bringing the Targaryen woman to the North, pledging himself to her, putting her above all others. Putting her above … Sansa took another sip of wine, her eyes remaining on the room at large before her.

Daenerys glanced at Jon and Sansa. They sat next to each other and yet made no contact, they may as well have been sitting by themselves and yet. And yet Daenerys could sense the wordless conversation between them. She would be truly shocked if the entire room couldn't sense it as well, their passion was loud. Although, she thought to herself, they would never qualify this as passion, they would see it as anger. But what they were silently exchanging was anything but anger. It was love masked as outrage.

"Are there any dances at these feasts?" she asked.

Jon raised his eyebrows. "Dances? Er, well …. perhaps, but we don't usually—"

"I'm sure we can make an exception for _Her Grace,"_ said Sansa, finally looking at Jon. "This is a feast in her honour after all. We should adhere to her requests."

Daenerys smiled and bowed her head courteously and Sansa bowed her head in return before looking to the musicians to signal a change.

There was a flurry of footsteps as servants rearranged certain tables to make space for dancing and once the floor was cleared, the music picked up to a tempo for a dance. Applause erupted from the other guests and Jon smiled in response.

Cley Cerwyn suddenly approached the table. He bowed in front of Jon. "Your Grace."

Jon nodded. "Lord Cerywn."

He turned to Daenerys who raised her head slightly. Cley lowered his head in response but turned to Sansa before waiting for a response from Daenerys.

"Lady Sansa," he said.

She regarded him.

"Would you do me the honour?"

Sansa smiled and moved to push out her chair. A servant stepped behind her and pulled it out for her.

"Most certainly, my Lord," she said, as she stood up.

The other guests clapped once again as Sansa made her way to Cley but Jon couldn't bring himself to join the applause. There was a faint ringing in his ears and he somehow felt as if he couldn't breathe, like his chest tightened.

"They make an attractive pair," said Daenerys to Jon.

He didn't respond.

Cley bowed and Sansa curtsied and they began to dance to the music, twirling around each other, while the guests watched, enraptured. It was odd to Jon that his first reaction to seeing Sansa's hand in Lord Cerwyn's was … it wasn't exactly protectiveness, it was something baser. Something he couldn't pinpoint.

He picked up his goblet and gulped down the wine.

Sansa looked beautiful out there. Then again she had always been a graceful dancer; poised and dignified but still looked as if she were genuinely having fun. It had been that ways since they were children. For a brief moment, Jon imagined himself as her partner and wondered if she would look nearly as happy dancing with him. As quickly as the thought entered his mind, he cast it out, puzzled as to what it was doing in his head in the first place.

For the next few moments, Jon wasn't lulled into that bizarre vision again but now that he had pictured it, he couldn't watch Sansa smile and move with Cley without that baser emotion grabbing hold of him. He could hardly sit still. His heart pounded, the room was too hot, he felt faintly nauseous as if he had eaten his food too quickly. He needed to leave, he couldn't stand to stay seated for another second.

"Forgive me, my Queen," he said, turning to Daenerys. "I must step out for a few moments. Only a few." He kissed Daenerys's hand and after the servant pulled out his chair, left the table.

In her periphery, Sansa saw Jon leave his seat and felt a rush of vindication but now that he had left the room, she no longer felt the need to dance. Truth be told, she wasn't all that sure why she had insisted on Daenerys's request, why she took up Lord Cerywn's offer at all. She just knew she had wanted Jon to see her and was pleased when he could no longer watch — if that was the reason he chose to leave. Her reactions and emotions had been confusing her all day and as if to intensify her confusion, she now felt the urge to stop the dance midway to fulfill the need she felt to find Jon and confront him. But she knew she couldn't do that and continued to smile and move with Lord Cerwyn.

Finally, the melody ended and Sansa curtsied once more as Cley bowed to a loud applause. A few lords and their ladies started walking to the open space and Sansa took the opportunity to follow Jon to what she assumed would be his room.

When she walked in, it was to find Jon pacing, his face taught, his hands clenched into fists. She shut the door but spoke without any preamble.

"You cannot leave your guest in the middle of a feast, it is rude," she said, her voice hard.

He continued to pace. _"Our_ guest," he corrected sharply. "And don't act like you care about being rude to her."

"I care about appearances."

"Your actions would prove otherwise," he muttered.

Sansa's eyes widened. "And what does that mean?"

Jon shook his head dismissively. "Nothing."

"No, Jon," she said, walking father into the room. "What does that mean?"

Jon stopped pacing and whirled on her. "You are the Lady of Winterfell—"

 _"Am_ I?" she said, cutting him off. "I thought you had given that title to Daenerys Stormborn."

"Is that what this is about then?" said Jon. "Are you trying to - to upset me because of her?"

"And how would a dance with Lord Cerwyn upset you, Jon?"

He was wrong-footed by the question but quickly rallied. "It is not that you danced with him, it is the manner with which you did!"

She laughed harshly. "It can't be any worse than the lovesick way you look at _her."_

"Sansa, I do not—"

"Oh you are not _stupid_ , Jon, you know exactly what I mean. I've watched you and her and—"

Jon blinked. "You've watched us?"

"I—" Panic swelled in Sansa's chest.

"I am only saying that you have made it plain that you forfeited our freedom because you find her beautiful!"

"Do not start that again," said Jon dangerously, closing the gap between them. "I did not forfeit our freedom, I solidified it and diminishing my efforts to keep our people safe, reducing the decisions I have made to whether or not I find a woman beautiful is insulting to me as a king and as a Northerner."

"It is insulting to me as a Northerner to see the way you look at a foreigner."

Jon stared at her incredulously. "Your mother was foreigner."

"Is that your excuse? Father did not bend the knee to my mother!"

"You are changing the issue!"

Sansa cocked her head. "The issue?"

"Yes! The issue of the manner in which you danced—"

"Jon, I _smiled_ —"

 _"I did not like it!"_

There was a pause.

"My dancing with Lord Cley was merely a gesture of good faith," said Sansa, trying to ignore the curious flutter in her chest. "If you do not remember, the Cerwyns needed a bit of persuasion to pledge fealty to us, I simply want to maintain the relationships we have."

"Oh is that what were you doing?" said Jon bitterly. "You weren't preening, trying to get yourself a husband?"

The air shifted dramatically and Sansa stilled at Jon's words. A rush of guilt took over him and he suddenly hated himself.

"Sansa, I—"

"Do you—" she clenched her jaw. "Do you truly believe that I am anywhere near ready to be married again?"

He shook his head frantically. "I'm sorry."

Sansa didn't look fragile, she looked hardened, like she walled herself in, the coldness that only seemed to dissipate in his presence cocooned her again and Jon knew he would stab himself in the gut if it would make any difference to her.

 _"Sansa."_

He rushed up to her and took her hands in his. "I am sorry. I spoke without thinking," he said desperately. He held onto her tighter. "Sansa, please forgive me." He pressed his forehead against hers and squeezed his eyes shut. " _Please_ forgive me."

Sansa sighed and after a few seconds closed her eyes too, her thumb stroking his as they clenched each other's hands. It was surprisingly easy to forgive him, to feel safe even when they argued like this, to … to … to drink him in …

The door wrenched open and Sansa and Jon sprang apart. Arya was too busy nagging to see them. "Do you know we can hear you yelling all the way down the—"

She stared at Jon and Sansa, feet away from each other, breathing heavily, faces red. She narrowed her eyes. "What are you two doing?"

"Nothing," said Jon.

"Arguing," said Sansa. "You said you heard us."

Arya kept her eyes narrowed.

"I should get back," said Jon.

"Of course, can't keep our guest waiting," said Sansa sardonically.

Jon glanced back at her, jaw clenched like he was gaining a third wind but he shook his head and walked out of the room. Arya was here now and — and Sansa knew that having an audience meant they couldn't let their passions take ahold of them like they did in private. She exhaled deeply and then looked at Arya who still regarded her with a shrewd look.

"What are you looking at," she mumbled.

"I suppose there was never anywhere to notice before now," said Arya. "But no one quite nettles you like him. Not even me."

Sansa shook her head. "You and I … we have a different relationship." She smiled. "You're annoying in an entirely different way." She pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "An entirely different way…"


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa could hear it as she strode through the corridors. Giggling. Whispering. It was coming from an empty chamber. Choruses of "shh!" "shh!" and more guffawing. She was on her way to a council with Jon and the others but her curiosity got the best of her and she stopped outside of the room in question, its door half-closed, and saw a few servants huddled together.

"I mean, it makes sense doesn't it? Nothing makes a man lose his senses like a good roll in the hay."

The laughing stopped the minute Sansa made her presence known and the servants disassembled from a circle and formed a line, bowing their heads to her.

"Lady Stark," they intoned.

She closed the door fully and walked closer to where they stood. "What is it that you are all talking about?"

No one said anything. She sighed.

"I _know_ that you're all gossiping in here, just tell me what it is."

Two servants exchanged nervous glances. "Forgive us, Lady Stark-"

"You're not in any trouble," she said with a slight smile. "I'm just … curious. Indulge me."

A woman started to speak. "Lady Stark, we … … we heard a rumour-"

"Yes," said Sansa, nodding. "That much has been made clear." She regarded them. "Out with it."

There was another pause before the woman continued speaking. "One of the servants, I'm not sure who exactly, heard some of the boat crew talking," she said. "And…"

Sansa stared at her. Her heart began to race as dread creeped up on her and started squeezing her chest: maybe she didn't want to hear the answer. Maybe it was a rumour that would shatter something inside of her. It was the only explanation for the sense of impending doom that was disrupting her body.

"His Grace, Lord Snow, he and the Targaryen woman … they … they had _relations_ on the boat…"

"That is the gossip anyway, my Lady," said a man.

Nothing could have prepared Sansa for those words; they struck her like a slap and she felt winded with the impact. More than that she felt betrayed in a way she hadn't expected. There was an intimacy to her sense of betrayal, an intimacy that shook her because it made her feel as if Jon had been unfaithful rather than traitorous, _adulterous_ even and that only spawned a familiar confusion in Sansa, the one that had plagued her after every interaction she'd had with Jon since he came back.

It was as if her insides were being ripped apart with the whirlwind of conflicting emotions and all she could do to hold herself together was remove herself from them, block herself from the surprising pain and all of its implications, turn herself into steel, into that statuesque demeanour she found herself inhabiting more and more.

"Thank you, that will be all," she said. Her jaw tight. "You can get back to your duties."

"My Lady."

Jon sat opposite Daenerys at a long wooden table covered with maps and documents. He was staring down at nothing in particular, stewing in a broody silence that infected the entire room. Daenerys had seen moments of this beforehand but nothing quite so long-lasting.

"It is unlike Sansa to be late," he said.

Daenerys regarded him. "You're worried about her?"

"I'm …" He gesticulated. _"Regretful_ that we haven't been getting along lately."

"Because of me," said Daenerys.

"No, because she doesn't trust me. Because she's stubborn. Because she doesn't have faith in my loyalty to-" He cut himself off and shook his head.

Daenerys saw the heartbreak in Jon's eyes as he said those words, heard the way his voice quickened with frustration and with a need, even then, to make his sister understand his choices - he was always with Sansa, he carried her with him, and all of their impassioned discussions.

"Well anyone with eyes could see how much you love …" she licked her lips. "The North," she finished diplomatically. "Perhaps she just needed some time to gain perspective."

"Well then she would've done it after the meeting not before," said Jon gruffly.

The door opened and he started but when he saw Davos walk in the room, he sat back in his chair, crestfallen.

"Your Grace," he said swiftly. He stopped in the middle of the room and spoke just as quickly.

"You need to talk to your crew. They're undisciplined and they have big mouths."

Daenerys stood up. "I beg your pardon?"

Jon raised his hands in a calming manner, looking from Daenerys to Davos and then spoke.

"What is it?"

"There seems to be a rumour going around," said Davos.

Daenerys looked at him, her head cocked upward and Jon narrowed his eyes at Davos' awkward expression.

"A rumour that you two had …"

Jon didn't need Davos to finish the sentence. Everything inside of him shifted. He could hear Daenerys scoff at the accusations, at Davos discussing methods to suppress the gossip but their words were distant echoes in his ears. He suddenly felt sick with worry, with anxiety.

"Did Sansa hear?" he whispered.

They continued to talk.

He cleared his throat. "Did Sansa hear?" he said more loudly.

"Uh…" Davos shrugged. "I'm not sure if any of your siblings heard, Your Grace, right now it seems to be confined to the common folk, I -"

"I need to find her," said Jon. He looked to Daenerys. "Excuse me."

Jon walked into Sansa's room without knocking, closing the door behind him. She was sitting at her desk, looking over documents. Although he was restless, he didn't dare speak but she did nothing to acknowledge his presence in her chambers. He wanted to pace but he also wanted to stay still, he wanted to shout at her to look at him but he also wanted to give her the first word. He was unusually ambivalent and unusually frazzled and he couldn't understand the guilt that was the source of his agitation.

Finally, she spoke.

"Do you love her?" she asked quietly, her eyes still on the document in front her.

"Sansa-"

"Do. You. _Love._ Her."

Jon sighed and hung his head then took a couple of steps closer to her desk. Finally she looked at him. Her eyes blazing with that wintry fire he so admired, that wintry fire that contradicted the coolness of her speech. She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know if it would make this mean something or feel like it means something if you were in love with her."

"Sansa, stop it."

"Well surely," she leaned back in her chair and shook her head, "if you are going to give away our autonomy, our freedom, it should be for love, should it not?"

 _"Sansa."_

She stood up and slammed her hands on the desk. "You tried to make me feel like a fool for questioning your motivations for this decision."

"Well you _were_ being a bit foolish," Jon snapped back. "You're being foolish right now!"

"Am I?" she yelled. Her pretence of aloofness cracking. "Because the last time someone from our family made a decision based on a woman, he ended up dead! My mother ended up dead! Northerners ended up dead! I told you you had to be smarter than Father, that you had to be smarter than Robb! And you're making the same mistakes-"

Jon slammed his hands on the desk now too, his face inches away from Sansa's. "I am not making the same mistakes!" he yelled. "I would never do anything to put the North at risk, to put Arya and Bran at risk, to put _you_ at risk, Sansa! How many times do we have to have the same argument?"

 _"Until you convince me!"_ The shrillness of her own yelling surprised Sansa, it was a mark of how personal she was taking the entire situation and she tried to regain some emotional distance.

"Do you know how weak this makes us look? The King in the North now a puppet because he doesn't think with his head!"

"Sansa, that's _enough!"_ He took a beat. "I would never-!"

"Oh, you're too blinded that you don't even see it!"

Swiftly, Sansa wrenched her eyes from Jon's gaze and turned her back to him, rubbing her forehead with her right hand. She was feverish, her skin was hot to the touch.

"Too blinded to see what?" said Jon.

He waited for a response and when he didn't get one, something in him compelled him to shout. _"What am I too blinded to see?"_

Sansa whirled around. "That you have chosen her!" she yelled. "Over - over-" _Me,_ she screamed internally. _You chose an outsider over me! And I_ hate _it and I don't know why I hate it_ this _much!_

Jon walked around the desk to her, he touched her shoulder but she couldn't bear the thought of him holding her with the same hands he held _her_ and she stepped out of his reach. While Jon itched to try again, he stayed where he was, giving her the space that she demanded, as he had and would continue to ensure that never again would she be touched unless she'd wanted to be.

She stared at him, breathing heavily and he shook his head, doing his best to calm the rage within him. He took a step toward her and stopped, maintaining a distance. "I-" he pressed his lips together. "I never knew you thought so little of me."

She rolled her eyes. "That isn't what I'm saying."

"Isn't it?" he countered. "If you so … passionately believe that I would put everything and everyone at risk for something as crude as sex or as selfish as love then I -"

"So you _do_ love her," she said severely, her eyes flashing.

He looked at her wearily. "Look, I loved a woman once," he said. "A Wildling woman, her name was Ygritte and even my love for her couldn't come before my duty to the Night's Watch, what makes you think anything can come before my duty to -" _You._ "My people?"

"You love her," she repeated.

Jon gritted his teeth, opening and closing his fists. "Why do you keep _saying_ that?"

"Why don't you deny it?" she retorted.

He looked at her, his mouth agape, as something - a new emotion - tickled his chest. Something that felt a bit like hope or a bit like delight.

"The possibility bothers you that much?" he said.

"Maybe no more than how much seeing me dance with Lord Cerwyn bothered you," she said harshly.

Sansa didn't know what she was saying before she'd said it and almost said something to take it back but when she saw the way Jon's face darkened, she realized this was the reaction she wanted from him.

"Are you saying it's the same thing?" he asked.

"Which is what exactly? Love or camaraderie?"

"You're being _impossible,_ Sansa."

"Either way, it probably isn't the same, Jon." Her words were spilling out of her. "Considering that I would never put him before you and you love your silver-haired queened more than-"

"Than _what?"_ he said, his anger returning. "More than what, Sansa, I want to hear you say it." He touched her wrist and when she didn't move away this time, he took both of her hands in his, her nails digging into his skin.

"I want to hear you say your cruelest insult to me!" he said, leaning into her face.

She jutted hers into his. "It isn't an insult if it's the truth!"

"You believing something so stubbornly doesn't make it true!" he said, holding onto her tighter. "I would _never_ betray you." He looked at her with an earnestness so fierce it made her legs weak. "I would never - I would _never_ put anyone else above you! I would never see you in danger _ever_ again. I would never… I would never -"

Neither of them knew who moved forward first only that they'd come together in a breathless embrace that ignited a spark within both of them. Jon's hands no longer held Sansa's, instead they held either side of her face while Sansa's hands gripped his wrists, her body bowed toward him.

It was a kiss as contradictory as everything before it; the softness of Jon's lips, the feel of them on her own unwound Sansa as release surged through her - the taste of her tongue, the way her hands clenched his own filled Jon with an unparalleled relish but these emotions also triggered others, triggered questions they could feel rise within them, triggered more agitation, more … passion - it did nothing to satiate.

Finally, they parted and Sansa sank toward the desk as Jon walked swiftly over to a wall so he could sag his weight against something solid. Now that they were apart, they could breathe again and they each took in the air with a gluttonous enthusiasm, trying to calm their thundering hearts, dry their teary eyes, still their racing minds. They dared not look at each other because now that they were apart, they could feel the pull between them; within each of them was an urge to snap back together, an urge so intense it was like a humming on their skin.

And afraid of what would happen if they stayed in the same place, afraid at his own longing to find out, to go to her, Jon hastily left the room without looking back to see Sansa gripping the desk with one hand and clutching her chest with the other.


End file.
